


The Personal Touch

by semaphoredrivethru



Series: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels [3]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: AU, Comment Fic, M/M, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphoredrivethru/pseuds/semaphoredrivethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After tonight, Michael will have his hands on some very valuable information. Providing, of course, he lives long enough to collect it.</p><p>James goes to unusual lengths to watch his employer's back. And his front.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Personal Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this picture](http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lsf98jocw21qzrq9po1_500.jpg) and [this one.](http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lsf9lkNzok1qmeiy1o1_500.png)

Michael climbed out of the SUV, buttoned his suit jacket with an impatient flick of his fingers, and headed straight in to the hotel. These sort of events were always a crush of people, from old money on down to nouveau riche, with foreign dignitaries passing the butter to vapid starlets all wanting to look good, wanting to been seen as the sort that cared about starving spotted owl babies in the Sahara, or whatever the pet cause of the week was. But peppered in amongst all of those people so very desperate to have their picture taken at the "right" place, were people like Michael.

People that didn't honestly give a flying fuck what they'd paid two thousand quid a plate for, because it was all just set dressing for the real show.

After tonight, if everything went as planned, Michael was going to have some very valuable information. His man in the field was fresh back from America, and had sent an encoded burst as soon as he'd hit London the day before to confirm the drop. One teeny flash drive that could change everything, topple regimes and adjust the balance of the markets if all of the data on it were to be made public, and he was in the same room as it after more than six months of planning. And soon, it would be in Michael's very own hand.

Providing, of course, that he lived long enough to collect it.

His hired muscle -- more for show than anything else and only for this one night -- trailed at a discreet distance as Michael entered the ballroom. He was pushing the unforgivable end of fashionably late, thanks to the row he'd had with McAvoy over tonight's game plan, but Michael could still make it work. There were enough people here that had seen the inside of a hotel room with him that Michael could pass off his tardiness with little more than a sly look and all would be forgiven.

Michael worked the room, chatting with a few diplomats that might be useful one day and playing hard to get with the business contacts who knew exactly the sort of draw an event like this had for Michael. His man would make contact as soon as they were sure the room was safe, and Michael was determined to prove it was without McAvoy's ridiculous plan ever being necessary.

That was, of course, right up until a familiar, short-fingered hand snatched the champagne flute from Michael's fingers, dumping the contents in a nearby flower arrangement.

"I'm James." McAvoy's voice was pitched differently, and Michael's lizard brain instantly identified the sultry promise in those two words. Quickly on the heels of that was the realization that his body guard had done something to his hair to make it look like a cross between schoolboy charm and as if he'd just rolled out of bed, and that he was wearing an oddly casual outfit, the price of attendance tonight considered. "I've been tasked with making certain the guests are... happy. Are you happy, Mr. Fassbender?"

"I was," Michael said, not caring in the slightest that he was pouting. "Until I lost my drink. I was thirsty. James."

McAvoy laughed at that, linking their arms together. "Trust me, you don't want the champagne tonight. It's an American knock off and sure to put you on your arse with half a glass. Let's see if we can convince the bartender to serve us beers in the bottle, shall we?"

Those bloody Americans. Always sending the CIA in to handle private matters, and then playing stupid when they got caught out. Michael sighed and shook his head.

"Keeping the guests happy, eh James?" Michael asked. McAvoy looked younger, almost innocent, and it was so much more difficult than ever before for Michael to keep his hands to himself. "And just what does that entail?"

McAvoy grinned, and it was his familiar, predatory smile that always did sweetly twisting things to the knot of lust Michael had gotten so very good at ignoring. Then he leaned in, pressing a brazen kiss on the edge of Michael's jaw.

"Whatever it takes, sir," he whispered. "I do like to make sure I've done the best job possible."

Someone bumped into Michael, and he stumbled closer to McAvoy, pressing them into more contact all at once than they'd ever had before. Michael caught himself on McAvoy, hands on his waist and beneath that ridiculous jacket, and turned his head to bury his nose in the shorter man's hair. McAvoy, in return, slid both hands up Michael's chest, as though he were considering holding on to his shoulders.

Michael was about five seconds away from saying something truly ridiculous about being hard to please when he felt nimble fingers slip something into his pocket. And then reality snapped back into focus, sharp and sudden, and it took far more effort than it really ought to have to let go of McAvoy and subtle check his pocket to confirm that the jump drive was indeed there.

"I think," Michael said, his voice more rough than he'd have liked it to be, but there wasn't much to be done about it without so much as his CIA-doctored champagne to soothe it. He swallowed thickly and tried again. "I think I've got everything I need for the evening, James. I might head out early, even."

McAvoy looked Michael up and down, a long and slow appraisal that made Michael's toes curl in delight. "Pity," he said at last, and then melted away into the crowd.

For a few seconds, Michael just worked on pulling himself back together. But he didn't dare wait too long, not with the situation as delicate as they all knew it. Finally, he signaled for his security detail, and, pleading illness, left the society people and the sore losers to their evening.

Back home, Michael waited in the library where he had first met McAvoy... James. He sipped his whisky, contemplating the play of firelight in the amber liquid, and waited for James to come to him. He wasn't sure what for; to finish what they'd started earlier, maybe, or even just to smooth out the ragged edges of Michael's mind from being so thoroughly distracted from the mission at hand. Security had reported that James had returned ten minutes before Michael had, so he was in the house for the talking, if he would just come out in the open.

It didn't matter, though. The clock stuck ten, then eleven, and finally midnight, and Michael finished his last drink with a resigned sigh before going to bed alone.


End file.
